


L'Admirateur Secret

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre finds himself with a secret admirer, and endeavors to discover who his secret admirer is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Admirateur Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [satb31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/gifts).



> For the Les Mis Valentine's Day exchange, as a treat.

When Combeferre opened his door one bitterly cold February morning, he almost tripped and fell over the bottle of wine that had been placed just outside. After a moment of silent cursing, he bent to list the bottle, examining it closely.

It seemed mostly innocuous, a bottle like any his friends might share in their lighter moments, but Combeferre’s observation was keener than most, and he noticed almost immediately a small heart inked into the corner of the label.

He ran his thumb over it contemplatively, his brow furrowed. A bottle of wine might have been gift enough, but this was a vintage that he very much enjoyed, though he could not remember if he had ever shared that fact with anyone.

All in all, it was a delightful gift, as he could only assume that was what it was meant to be — why else would it have been left outside his door, if not as a gift?

He wished only that whomever had left it had left also his — or her, he supposed, though given his schedule of late it seemed particularly unlikely that a woman might take some sort of shine to him when he could not remember the last time he had even spoken to one of the fairer sex — name, so that he might know who to thank.

But as much as he searched the label, he could find only the tiny heart, and as that contained no clues as to its giver's identity, when he opened it that night with his supper, he offered a toast only to his nameless admirer.

* * *

 

It became a pattern, and while Combeferre was a man who enjoyed dissecting and analyzing patterns, this was one that proved only a source of frustration.

For the next few days, more small trinkets appeared outside of Combeferre's door, each one no more yielding clues than the first.

They were small, both in size and assumed value, but thoughtful - Combeferre’s favorite variety of ink, a new quill, a small, leather-bound book with blank parchment inside for scribbling his thoughts, new candles –and more.

And they were infuriating.

Anyone observant might notice these things about Combeferre, but that limited the list mostly to his close friends, and from there, no clues could be gleaned from the gifts themselves.

Which led Combeferre to brooding and to obsessing, to the point where even Enjolras, possibly the least-observant man in all Paris (at least, were Grantaire to be believed), noticed, and then, to Combeferre's extreme embarrassment, commented upon it.

"My friend, what ails you?" Enjolras asked, sounding more irritated than concerned. "You have barely contributed anything this eve, and our plans would progress far more should my closest lieutenant manage to bring his heads down from the clouds."

Combeferre flushed. "I apologize," he said, a little stiffly. "I admit fully that I find myself distracted this eve, and apologize for the negative impact upon the Cause."

Enjolras pursed his lips slightly, then shook his head, his expression softening. "You were not alone in your distraction," he admitted. "Everyone it seems was possessed with something tonight." He glared at Combeferre. "And do not dare blame it on Saint Valentin, as if that cursed holiday can cause rational men to lose all sense."

Now Combeferre laughed, though his heart also leapt, for he had forgotten Valentine's Day drew so near. "Perhaps not the day, but is man not an animal, and are not animals driven by their baser instincts when the promise of spring hangs in the air?"

"No," Enjolras said, as if the answer were plain.

Combeferre sighed and shook his head. "I suspect then my own issue may not stir sympathy in your heart, but still, I feel I must confess what has driven my distraction: I have a secret admirer."

Enjolras listened as Combeferre laid plain his tale, then shook his head at the end, almost bewildered. "But why would this person not just make his affection plain?" he asked.

Shrugging, Combeferre replied, "Perhaps he feels embarrassed. Perhaps he thinks it romantic."

"Romantic," Enjolras scoffed. "Would not the most romantic thing be to just tell the person? That is what I would want done, for how else would one ever know someone wishes to pursue a romantic engagement?"

Combeferre made a mental note to convey this conversation to Grantaire before telling Enjolras gently, "Perhaps, but affairs of the heart are more complicated than that. What if they fear their affection were not returned?"

Enjolras's brow furrowed and he shrugged irritably. "I know not," he confessed. "But this is perhaps a matter where I may not offer the best advice."

"Perhaps not," Combeferre said, trying to keep a straight face, then became abruptly serious. "But at the least, you could offer me assurance that my secret admirer is not you."

Enjolras blinked at him, then leaned forward to place his hand over Combeferre's. "My friend," he said gently, "just...no."

* * *

 

It was with a certain trepidation that Combeferre awaited the next gift, knowing that it would most likely not steer him towards any answers no matter how he might desire them.

But not even he could have predicted how perfect the next gift was: a beautiful moth specimen, mounted on thick parchment so he might hang it on his wall.

He loved it.

Had his secret admirer been there, he would have kissed him on the lips and perhaps even brought him into his bedroom to show just how much he loved it.

As that wasn't an option, he instead told everyone who would stand still long enough to listen about it.

"It's a moth," Courfeyrac said blankly, after the fifth iteration of the story that night at the Musain. "You are positively giddy over an insect."

Joly smacked his arm and scolded him, "It is not the insect but the thought behind it."

Courfeyrac shrugged and took a sip of wine before muttering mutinously, "What thought behind it?"

"Well, _I_  think it is romantic," Bossuet said loyally.

Grantaire snorted and took a sip of wine. "Capital-R Romantic, perhaps, giving a dead creature for a gift," he said cynically. "But then, that is normally Prouvaire's purview far more than mine."

"And where is Jehan?" Combeferre asked. "I had hoped to ask his opinion.

Bahorel muttered to Feuilly, "He had hoped to have one more person to which to tell his story."

As Feuilly hastily turned his laughter into a cough, Joly told Combeferre, "I saw him earlier this day. He looked peaked, and when I asked what ailed him, he told me that he had had many a late night of recent. I recommended he get some sleep, so perhaps he has heeded my advice."

The conversation turned to discussions of sleep and its relative merits, but Combeferre stayed still and silent in his seat. Many late nights – it couldn't be – it was a coincidence, surely. Or else—

Who but Jehan would notice so many little things about Combeferre, sensitive and perceptive as he was? And who but Jehan would take or make the time to bring such little gifts to Combeferre?

Who but Jehan had spent so much time with Combeferre, reading and writing with him late into the night? Who but Jehan smiled that special smile when Combeferre made one of his awful puns?

Who but Jehan could make Combeferre's heart beat as quickly as it currently was?

He stood abruptly and conversation faltered to a halt as everyone turned to stare at him. "I must go," he said, his tone clipped, though he tried to give them as reassuring of a smile as he could. "There is something I must do."

He grabbed his belongings and swept out of the Musain, ignoring the sudden whispers that followed him out.

He knew what he must do.

* * *

 

When Jehan woke the next morning, it was to the realization that he had slept entirely through the Les Amis meeting the prior evening, and he hurried to dress so as to make his way to Enjolras’s and repair whatever damage had been wrought by his absence.

So hurried was he that he almost stepped onto what had been carefully placed just outside his door, and he stopped almost comically, one foot raised. Slowly, he lowered his foot and bent to pick up the parchment that sat there, scanning across it, his breath caught in his throat.

It was a poem, a particularly beautiful poem that Jehan had memorized long before and recited one evening at the Musain, mostly to himself, a bit too far gone on opium and wine to pay attention to the proceedings. Whomever had given him this must have been paying careful attention to remember, let alone find such an obscure work and painstakingly copy it in almost hauntingly-familiar script.

If the script were not enough, the detailed sketch of a moth in the corner would have told Jehan who left this for him, and he gaped at Combeferre, who slowly stepped from around the corner, eyes focused solely on Jehan. “From your secret admirer,” Combeferre said simply.

“Secret no more,” Jehan murmured, still staring up at him.

Combeferre inclined his head slightly. “No more than yours is secret,” he said, though there was a question in his voice, a slight worry that he might have interpreted incorrectly.

Jehan smiled instantly at him, a sweet, wide smile. “To call my affections secret now would be folly,” he said, his tone a touch dry. “But to know them to be returned…”

He trailed off, and Combeferre smiled as well. “I had thought, perhaps, given the mild nature of this day, that you might accompany me on a walk? I have a feeling that we have much to discuss, and I wished to thank you for all you have given me.”

“Nothing would make my heart happier,” Jehan told him, still smiling. He glanced down at the parchment still in his hands and then back at his door, his expression turning contemplative. “Then again,” he said slowly, “I need put this inside so as to not ruin what has been beautifully made.” Combeferre blushed slightly at the compliment. “Perhaps you should accompany me inside and we can talk a bit there before taking a stroll.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “How very forward of you, M. Prouvaire,” he said, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But very well, I shall indeed accompany you inside, and there we can talk as much as we wish.”

Jehan nodded and opened the door, standing aside to let Combeferre in ahead of him, his smile turning wicked. “Indeed,” he murmured, “Or not talk as much as we wish.”

And he closed the door with a particularly satisfied snap.


End file.
